Fingerless gloves in communion with a gas heater. Water boils, steeps in dry plants, quiet talk.
Light is warming sacks of grain, from a harvest a summer past, and bamboo stalks rise like organ pipes I don’t know what for. And through the panes of glass are thick grains of ice snow-piled high.
The decision is made to dig for radishes.
Snowshoes are declined, surplus shovels, and the snow is deep. There should be a map, with an X and maybe pirates.
But there aren’t.
Beneath, sweet sweet radishes. There’s a lesson here. But it should never be named, and no one should ever tell where the radishes were buried. Alive.